


Sutures

by dorianne77



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Developing Relationship, Idiots in Love, Insecurity, M/M, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Relationship Negotiation, Romance, Some Humor, Some Plot, Some angst, Tags May Change, some porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:42:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26622343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorianne77/pseuds/dorianne77
Summary: “Jesus,” John sounds mildly alarmed now. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”I might have a few bruised ribs and something small and sharp is stuck in my right calf, so I respond in the negative.“Okay. Alright… Listen.”“I already dislike the destination of this conversation,” I try to interrupt, but John only looks down at me with concerned eyes, not seeming to register my words. An auditory processing disorder, perhaps?“I don’t feel comfortable leaving you alone with a concussion. Is there—”“I don’t have a concussion.” I really do. So do.“—someone you can—”“Come with me, then.” Very much do....A different first meeting for John and Sherlock where one is a bit less 'not gay', the other is not looking for a flatmate, and where Mike Stamford has Plans.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 70
Kudos: 130





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: this work contains brief mentions of PTSD, nightmares, and suicidal thoughts. There might be medical inaccuracies, or questionable medical practices. Some of these might even be intentional.  
> Not beta read or brit picked, and feedback is always welcome.

**_Sherlock_ **

“Is that a picture of a corpse? Where the hell did you get that, freak?”

The surrounding tables go silent at Donovan’s screech, pints momentarily forgotten in favor of morbid curiosity as I push the aforementioned photograph under Lestrade’s nose. To his slight credit the D.I. doesn’t bat an eyelash at my unexpected arrival, he simply moves an arm around the piece of paper to shield it from view and sends a glare at the room at large – a silent command to the masses to mind their own business. It’s disappointingly ineffective.

“I gave it to him,” he says, pushing his pint away as he studies the picture for clues he is not going to find without my guidance. “Cold case. What of it, Sherlock?”

I take a deep breath and prepare to walk him through the sheer lunacy the Yard deemed worthy of the label ‘police work’ while investigating the Hopkins case, but Donovan insists on wasting precious air on forming words _aloud_ rather than contributing to the common good by _choking_ on it.

“How the hell did you even find us here? Are you stalking Lestrade now? Is that your new thing?”

On her third pint, haven’t been here for more than half an hour. Index and middle finger yellowed from smoke. Grown out nails, sensible shoes. Anderson’s wife must be home.

“I invited him, actually,” Stamford interrupts before I could deliver any of my deductions, looking up at me with a bright, welcoming smile. “Glad you could make it, mate.”

I consider telling him I’m not here for something as mundane as socializing, but he looks so genuinely happy at my presence that my thoughts grind to a halt for a brief second.

Happy. Why?

Mike Stamford. Extrovert, sanguine personality, never a trace of negative feelings towards my person. Has been referring to me as a _friend_ for nearly three years now. Generally jovial, yet his current reaction seems overly hospitable compared to our previous encounters. Why?

This is the third time he (futilely) invited me out to their weekly “pub night“ during the last two months. Timing sporadic, even though he didn’t skip the remaining five occasions, if Molly’s ramblings are to be believed. Not a simple social nicety then – he had a specific purpose in mind when selecting the dates. Something out of his control when it comes to schedule, something like— oh.

_Oh._

He wants to introduce me to someone.

Well, that explains his usage of the word “mate”, designed to make me look approachable, no doubt.

As laughable as that idea is, I find myself surveying the occupants of the rest of the seats. Both Lestrade and Molly defer to Stamford’s judgement when it comes to interpersonal relations, and I cannot help the flicker of curiosity over the person he would perceive as a _match_ for someone of my caliber.

There are two more people sitting at the table: a dark haired man to Mike’s right and a blond one at the far end, secluding himself subconsciously.

The latter is a doctor, not practicing, financial issues, knows Mike through shared residency. Uncomfortable with the group but couldn’t find a reason to turn the invitation down, unwilling to lie.

The dark haired man is a chemist, recently returned from the US. Stable financial background, hypochondriac tendencies, an interest in wildlife photography. Early riser, athletic, running in the mornings. Taller than me. Pads of left fingertips calloused, no deformity on the right thumb, not guitar… shoulders even, not the violin… minimal exaggeration in the curve of the cervical spine. Cello.

Chemistry, classical music. Things I’m obviously interested at. _Dull_.

No reason to be disappointed.

“Look at the skin above the collarbone. What do you see?”

Lestrade squints at the blurry picture before appraising me with a questioning look, finally realizing the photo was not included in any of the folders he gave me. Good.

“It’s… red, although it’s hard to tell with… was this taken—”

“By the husband of the victim at the morgue.” I pull out another photo from the inside pocket of my coat, this one with the woman lying naked on the dissection table, intestines already missing. “This was taken by the diener about twelve hours later. Notice anything?” I ask the inspector pointedly, ignoring the cellist’s horrified gasp at the printed visual.

God, it’s like Mike doesn’t know me _at all._

“The bruise is missing, but it’s not uncommon for post-mortem changes to—”

“It’s not a _bruise_ Lestrade, God, have you always been this dull-witted or do you have to work extra hard to fulfill your daily quota of idiocy?” I snap at the D.I. before I realize that I let my irritation with the cellist – with Mike – with _myself_ – bleed into my words, but it’s too late to take them back now, and Lestrade’s eyes widen in indignation, and his next words are going to be scolding and full of reproach, like I’m a child to be—

“It looks like livor mortis.”

The quiet voice stuns the table into silence, and the blond haired man shift uncomfortably under the attention he unwittingly attained with his words. “It’s… um.”

Out of nowhere, there is a shift. The previously unassuming doctor – _soldier_ , how did I miss that – looks me in the eye, straightens his shoulders, and when he next speaks his voice is devoid of the unsure, mousey quality I came to associate with Molly’s utter lack of self-confidence. The slight tremor in his left hand is nowhere to be seen, his deep blue eyes are shining with conviction, and compared to his initial dismay over putting himself on the spot, he suddenly looks like he is entirely too comfortable with the situation. With _any_ situation.

The transformation is so stark and abrupt it reminds me of watching a caterpillar emerging in fast motion.

It’s _breathtaking_.

“I can’t be certain because of the picture quality, but _that_ ,” he points to the first photograph I deposited on the table, “definitely looks like livor mortis to me.”

Lestrade appears to have forgotten his ire as he looks back to me for confirmation, but—

“Livor mortis is not localized,” I say as a challenge, and the soldier responds with such tightly controlled vehemence it could almost pass as apathy.

Almost.

“Not usually, no. But it’s easy enough to get rid of at the right stage, if you want to give forensics a run for their money. The killer might have missed a spot.”

Mike is staring at me in clear expectation, and it takes me an uncharacteristically long second to realize that the cellist – who starts to look vaguely green in the face – has nothing to do with his insistence on bringing me along to these outings. No.

It’s the soldier.

Ex-soldier, actually, invalided from… tan line above the wrist; Afghanistan or Iraq? Inconclusive, not enough data.

Army doctor, but wounded in action; hiding a cane behind his chair, but not injured in the leg… psychosomatic limp. Nightmares, PTSD, frequently cancels on therapist. Unemployed, small flat, old spring mattress causing him back pain… Phone a gift, from sibling with addiction. Bad relationship. Plain clothes, deep-set desire to blend in. Atheist despite strict religious upbringing. Nurturing personality, wish to contribute, ordinary routine. Common. Dependable, craving stability. Harmless.

Carries unregistered firearm.

Oh. Mike is _good_.

“Sherlock? Is that correct? Did someone—”

“Yes,” I reply to Lestrade’s inquiry in a haste, unwilling to tear my gaze away from the blond man.

“Jesus. It had to have been someone with access to—”

“Diener,” I interrupt again, watching the soldier’s pupils dilate as he takes me in from head to toe, slowly, eyes landing back on mine.

“The diener? Why would—”

“Her younger sister was pregnant at the time, father unknown.” Respiratory rate increasing, licking lower lip. Not flirting – subconscious move. Hmm. “I believe Mr. Hopkins is due for a paternity test.”

I pass the manila folder back to Lestrade blindly, who heaves a sigh as he moves to stand up, gesturing for Donovan to follow. “Right. We better—”

“Lisa Pushkin, lives in Dagenham, freshly mother of two. Not likely to leave her own bedroom before you get there, let alone the country.” Which is the sole reason why I’m not over there fetching her myself.

Pupils are nearly swallowing the thin rings of blue now.

Lestrade doesn’t bother asking if I’m going along, offering some feeble joke about how duty calls, but Donovan stops on her way out, and I wonder how the doctor-soldier is going to react to the name calling. To my surprise, Donovan directs her next words not at me but at the blond man, addressing him with a tone that is light and amused. Interested.

“Alright there, John?”

John. How deceptively ordinary.

_John_ tears his gaze away from me with a light gasp, shoulders hunching up like a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar. His cheeks gain a reddish tint. Shame. At staring or at being caught? He didn’t seem bothered by me staring right back a second ago. Clears his throat. Deep breath, shoulders straighten again. Ah. Reflexive reaction then, conscious effort to stifle. Homophobic parent.

“Fine,” he delivers in a cold tone that must catch Donovan terribly off-guard, if her sharp inhale is any indication. They must have been flirting before I arrived. “Goodbye, Sally.” John smiles at her, but the expression manages to be anything but friendly.

She must think so too because she leaves in a huff, murmuring obscenities under her breath, clearly taking offence to John’s changed demeanor. Excellent.

“You were interested in her just minutes ago,” I blurt out before I could even settle on the type of reaction I’m trying to provoke, but John surprises me by not denying the truth of that statement. “What changed?”

John doesn’t hesitate with his answer, gaze firmly holding mine once again.

“She called you a freak. It didn’t sound like friendly teasing.”

My peripheral vision shows me Mike positively beaming in smug satisfaction. Not that I can blame him; John is truly—

“Are you joining us for—”

“Can’t,” the words are out of my mouth before I can contemplate my next set of actions, which is good, because: “Work.”

And the work always comes first.

John looks disappointed but is quick to masks it with a polite smile, and that slip of composure shouldn’t tell me anything new about the nature of his interest, yet all of a sudden I can feel my pulse accelerate with a rush of adrenaline, which is an entirely unwarranted reaction on my side, because… honestly.

The _work_.

“Another time, then,” John offers but his eyes are resigned, the words just an out he wishes he was given before agreeing to come here tonight.

I take it.

“Perhaps,” I say by way of goodbye, having no intention to take part in these outings despite the vague agreement, and John seems to know this. Good.

The next several Fridays I get a text from Mike without fail, all mentioning that John will be there. I don’t respond to any of them.

No reason to be disappointed.

…

**_John_ **

I’m feeling decidedly foolish by the third week, but Mike insists that Sherlock is bound to turn up on one of these pub nights again, sooner or later. The fact that Mike knows the main reason of my continual agreement to his invitations is more than a bit humiliating, but denial after he saw me practically drooling over the consulting detective would just push the issue into pathetic territory. Instead, I choose to cut my losses and endure the knowing smirks whenever my head snaps up at tall, dark haired men wandering through the entrance.

Also, it has the added benefit of asking questions about Sherlock without having to pretend not being interested in the answers.

The fourth time proves to be especially catastrophic because Greg brings Sally along again, and she comes decidedly close to snarling at me when I offer to buy her a drink as a way of apology for my lack of manners last time. Not that I feel terribly sorry, but giving a half-hearted apology sounds much better than sitting across a sulking sergeant the whole evening. Somehow, I end up doing both.

On the fifth week we order burgers, and it’s not until Mike laughs at me for nearly choking on a piece of lettuce when the waitress ruffles my hair that it strikes me just how ridiculous I am being. The guy sitting next to me snorts into his beer, murmuring something about leggy blondes and being blind, and I feel like I should defend myself, but I never even learned the man’s name and don’t particularly care to, so what would be the point.

What am I doing here, really?

I’m spending my Friday nights with people I barely know, buying drinks and junk food I can’t even afford at this point, all in the hopes of… what exactly? In the hopes that someone, who makes his lack of interest very clear with his absence every week, will suddenly change his mind after more than a month just because Mike says he might? I’ve been ignoring Harry, I’ve been ignoring my bills, and now I’m apparently ignoring leggy blonde waitresses too, all in favor of… what? A fantasy where I’m not close to being evicted from my bedsit? One where I’m not turned away from surgery after surgery because of my damned tremor? One where I’m not useless and not waking up with a scream caught in my throat every morning and where a supposed genius would look at me twice?

_‘Avoidance, John. A comforting version of reality. You’re a doctor, you know how this works.’_

Jesus Christ, Ella is right, isn’t she.

I put my burger down and turn to Mike, intent on telling him I won’t be available on Fridays from now on, which given my state of unemployment and no social life is as transparent of a lie as it gets, but I’m feeling pathetic and juvenile and… yeah. This can’t go on.

“Mike, listen. I, um—”

“Where is Lestrade?”

Oh god, I _know_ that voice.

“Sherlock! So good to see you, mate. Why don’t you pull up a chair and—”

“No time, Mike. Why isn’t Lestrade here?”

“Oh, he’s visiting his sister this weekend I think,” comes the reply from Mike, and I suddenly feel like things are happening too fast for me to follow. Sherlock is here, wearing the same black coat he did last time, and the spike of adrenaline at this development sends my heart into an uncomfortable race. He looks exactly the same as I remembered: high cheekbones, hair artfully tousled, eyes a captivating mixture of green-grey-blue.

Eyes, which are pointedly fixed at Mike, unwavering, and the lack of recognition turns my initial excitement into a quick downward spiral. He probably doesn’t even remember me. Why would he? We saw each other for all of five minutes, and while he _is_ quite the sight, I’m not much to look at in turn.

My burger is only half-eaten and it feels like a waste of money to leave it here, but the pang of humiliation over my own behavior prompts me to stand up, gather my phone and check my pockets for my wallet.

“Uh, I’m sorry but I just remembered—” I start making my excuse, but the world’s apparently only consulting detective cuts me off like I’m not even there, and I can feel the tips of my ears go red from a weird combination of shame and anger. God, I can’t wait to be back at my flat.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? Mine is dead.”

Mike starts to reach into his pocket, but seems to change his mind halfway, shrugging in apology.

“Sorry. It’s in my coat.”

Sherlock frowns, gracing Mike with an evaluating look, and I take the opportunity to try and announce my department again.

“So—” is as far as I get however, because Sherlock goes on like he’s deaf to my voice, and my feelings about the situation decidedly take a sharp turn towards anger now.

“And where _is_ your coat?”

Oh for god’s sake.

“Here,” I say in a burst of exasperation, offering my own phone to the detective with an annoyed huff. “Use mine.”

The man looks at me like he’s surprised to see me, and I swear I can feel my blood pressure crawling higher with each passing second while he’s making me wait, holding my phone like an idiot.

“Oh,” he finally accepts the mobile, and I’m surprised to see a barely there upward quirk to the corner of his mouth. “Thank you.”

His focus is instantly taken up by typing out a message, fingers moving rapidly over the keyboard, so I grab my wallet and start counting bills, working on bringing my breathing down to an acceptable rate.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

At first I’m not sure who the man is talking to, but the mention of Afghanistan would be too coincidental to be addressed to someone else, so when the other occupants of the table offer no reply I look up at the detective in confusion.

“Sorry?”

“Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

He sends me a quick glance before looking back to the screen, the small gesture working miracles on dissipating my anger for some reason. I hesitate, more than a little lost, but Mike offers no help when I seek out his gaze across the table, sporting a knowing smirk while chewing on his chips.

“Afghanistan,” I say uncertainly. “Sorry, how did you know—”

“You’re an army doctor – obvious. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp must be really bad when you walk,” he gestures in the direction of my cane behind my chair, “but you’re not favoring a leg when you sit or stand, like you’ve forgotten about it, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq.”

I’m still busy collecting my jaw from the floor when Sherlock passes my phone back, finally making eye contact and _god_ , that was…

“Amazing.”

He tilts his head to the side, an inscrutable expression taking over his features, and I have no idea how long we’re standing there before Mike’s voice breaks the silence.

“Sherlock, this is an old friend of mine, John Watson. John, this is Sherlock Holmes.”

I can’t decide whether a handshake would be welcome by the standoffish detective so I offer what I’m hoping is an equally detached nod and a “Mr. Holmes” instead, but when I turn around after grabbing my cane there is a bony hand extended in my direction, and I’m sure there’s no masking the surprise that must be written on my face.

“Sherlock, please,” his words are escorted with an easy smile, and I’m more than a bit dazed as I grip his hand, but he doesn’t stop to give me a chance to catch my breath. “Sorry, gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary,” and with a final twist of his lips, he is off.

Two hours later I’m watching a rerun of some stupid quiz show when curiosity finally gets the better of me, so I reach for my phone, navigate to the sent messages, and open the last one.

To: +44-555-1172-031, 20:03  
 _If brother has green ladder  
arrest brother.  
_ _SH_

Huh.

I don’t even get to ponder the possible meaning of that text when the phone beeps in my hands, signaling a new message from one Mike Stamford.

From: Mike Stamford, 22:17  
 _Glad you could come today! Same  
time next week?_

I heave a sigh and start composing an excuse in my head, dressed in words that are apologetic just enough to be believable, but Mike seems to sense my hesitation because he follows up with another text before I could type out mine.

From: Mike Stamford, 22:20  
 _He knew Greg was out of town._

I frown at the screen, unsure if I know the meaning of Mike’s words. Unsure if I _dare_ to know the meaning of them, really.

To: Mike Stamford, 22:22  
 _Sorry?_

From: Mike Stamford, 22:23  
 _Sherlock knew Greg was gonna be  
at his sis today. I was there when  
Greg told him over the phone._

Well. That doesn’t mean anything though, does it? Sherlock certainly proved tonight that Mike wasn’t exaggerating about his genius, and if a genius takes five minutes to notice your presence in a room that hardly carries a positive message, let alone an encouraging one. Whatever reasons he had for coming to the pub tonight, I definitely didn’t make the list.

It’s just as well – I’m hardly fit for re-entering the dating scene anyway, if Ella’s increasing complaints about my general lack of progress is anything to go by. She would be pleased about me making a ‘sensible decision’, for once.

To: Mike Stamford, 22:29  
 _I really dont think I can make it  
next week. Sorry mate._

From: Mike Stamford, 22:31  
 _Come on John! He will be there, if  
not next week then the one after.  
What’s the worst that can happen  
meanwhile? Good burgers? :-)_

I feel my cheeks redden a bit – while Mike has been quite open about his match-making plans ever since he admitted to them after Sherlock’s first visit to the pub, discussing the matter feels a bit humiliating now that I’ve got a dose of the man’s brilliance firsthand. Forget leagues, Sherlock and I are not even on the same _planet_.

I don’t know what Mike was even thinking in the first place, honestly. What felt like an exciting prospect of getting to know someone new, someone _interesting_ , has just turned into a sad attempt at fixing the scarred, broken soldier up with the brilliant goddamned supermodel.

To: Mike Stamford, 22:45  
 _What are you even doing Mike, really_

I’m nearly asleep when the response comes, the bed creaking in protest as I reach for my phone in the darkness, squinting as the artificial light of the screen assaults my pupils.

From: Mike Stamford, 23:37  
 _Following a hunch. ;-) See you  
next week!_

A hunch, huh?

Faulty hunch as it may be, I find myself still staring at my ceiling when sunshine starts slipping through the edges of the blinds, and decide that there are, indeed, worse things than good burgers.

To: Mike Stamford, 07:21  
 _Next week, then._


	2. Chapter 2

**_Sherlock_ **

“Lestrade!” I storm into the pub with no care for the bodies I have to shove away in order to get to the D.I.’s usual table, catching myself on the back of chairs more than once before I reach my destination. “It’s Hart! The murderer is Mason Hart!”

“Christ Sherlock, would you stop shouting—”

“No _time_ Lestrade,” I grit my teeth through the pain and the dizziness, willing him to understand the urgency of the situation with… words! God, words are useless! “He’s trying to escape, he must be halfway to Heathrow already. Move!”

This, at long last, seems to shock the man into motion, and I breathe a sigh of relief over the haste he scrambles up from his seat with, phone at his ear as he struggles to put his coat on one-handed. Seriously, the priorities of people.

“Car?” he asks me, but I shake my head (and regret it immediately) as I try to convey the important bits as to the point as possible.

“Don’t bother looking for it. He bought a ticket under his own name, British Airways, Moscow. Hurry!”

“I—wait, aren’t you coming? We need—“

“I’ll meet you at the Yard, need to collect the evidence first. Go, for god’s sake!”

Lestrade seems to find this plan severely lacking, but thankfully he doesn’t have the time to make further inquiries as to why I’m not joining him in what promises to be a thrilling manhunt. I take a moment to collect myself – and to catch my breath, if I’m painfully honest, taking a few decisive steps towards the exit before Mike could—

“Wait! Stop!”

It’s the army doctor. John. His tone is assertive but concerned, the two mixing so smoothly that I’m having difficulty telling whether he is being more of the soldier or the doctor when he grabs my arm and turns me around with unexpected force. By some miracle I manage to keep my footing as his blue eyes swim into view, followed by his… eyes. Again, and again, and again. The vertigo is worsening.

“You’re bleeding,” he says as he pushes gentle fingers behind my left ear, and indeed, they come away red. Not surprising, with the force of the blow Hart dealt, although it’s a little disconcerting that I didn’t feel any blood trickling down my neck up until now.

John – who looks decidedly concerned now – wastes no time in grabbing my head with both hands, tilting it forward to assess the damage, and I feel another bout of adrenaline releasing at the feeling of his fingertips carding through my hair. I let it happen. It’s admittedly liberating, being touched so freely. Not many people have ever dared.

“Bloody hell,” his voice is soft now, breath tickling my nose. “What happened to you?”

“Shovel,” I offer simply, then realize that a more elaborate explanation might be in order. “The murderer felt he had incentive to use it on me.” And thank god for his unfortunate choice of weapon – an axe would not have slipped off my skull so easily due to the awkward angle.

John releases my head and grabs my biceps instead, as if he is afraid I’m going to fall without him keeping me up, and stares at me with a focus that tells me he is looking for pupil dilation and involuntary eye movement. The vertigo has lessened enough that I can keep track of his blue orbs without much difficulty, but that doesn’t seem to satisfy the doctor.

“You need to go the A&E,” he states with an air of finality, like he expects me to obey without questions, and I realize that submitting to his brief physical assessment might have given the wrong impression. If I would stop being dizzy for just a minute, I might even be able to say what that impression was supposed to be, exactly.

“No need. I’m just going to—” I try to slip past the man (short, short man) without finishing the sentence, but the hands on my arms tighten, and I find I can’t break away without a more forceful approach. I don’t feel like that’s warranted though. Not yet.

“You need stiches, mate,” John says, articulating clearly, slowly, as if I have a learning disability of some kind. What a preposterous notion. “You might have a concussion—”

“I don’t have a concussion.” I might have a concussion.

“—and even if you don’t,” I probably do, “that wound is bleeding rather a lot. It needs to be sewn up.”

“I can do that myself.”

John laughs at this, and his laugh is almost nice enough that I forgive him for looking at me like I’m the idiot here. Almost.

“Not until you can stand straight on your own, you can’t.”

I frown heavily to convey my feelings about the absurdity of this statement, but John only raises an eyebrow in response and demonstrates his point by letting go of my arms just a bit, his strong, sure hands ready to catch me at a moment’s notice. I lean into his right palm without meaning to, and I find I can’t quite get to straighten my posture without overbalancing towards his left. Huh.

“You do it, then,” I blurt out before my mind has a chance to catch up with my mouth, and John’s amused smile vanishes without a trace. Shame – he has a nice smile. Was it really directed at me?

“Look mate… Sherlock,” he starts but I cut him off, mostly because I already know all the arguments he’s going to make, and a little because the way he says my name just requires an immediate response. The mere fact that he remembers it does, really.

“I’m not going to the A&E. Either do it, or let me go.”

John seems to ponder that for a minute, but another trickle of blood escapes my hairline, which seems to motivate him into making a decision.

“Sit.”

It’s not a request, not even a little, as John Watson – Captain John Watson? – manhandles me into a wooden chair right across Mike Stamford.

“Hello Mike,” I greet him in what I hope is an amicable tone, and it must be working because Mike beams at me in turn.

“Hi there, Sherlock.”

“I’m injured,” I say quite uselessly, but Mike appears to find this entertaining enough to be the cause of a good, hearty laugh.

“Yeah, I can see that,” he chuckles over his pint, looking over at—

“’Scuse me, we need to use your first aid kit.”

Ah, John has found a waiter. With red hair. He doesn’t look very happy with John. People with red hair rarely look happy, now that I think about it. Why is that?

“Shall I call an ambulance?”

Is it because they are the easiest targets to spot in a crowd? That could be upsetting, I suppose. Someone should teach them how to avoid snipers.

“No, no need for that, our friend here just injured himself and we need—”

I’m their friend? Who are ‘they’? Is John included in ‘them’? What are the minimum criteria of entering a friendship? Isn’t there a time limit? A minimum number of exchanged words?

“Take him to a hospital then, perhaps?”

Well, I did let him touch my hair. And my arms. He’s still gripping my left shoulder, I think. I hope it’s him and not the waiter with the red hair. I don’t feel like chasing snipers today.

“No.”

Oh. _Captain_ Watson indeed.

“We need your first aid kit. Or am I to understand that you don’t have one, as per regulation?”

Oh, that’s clever John, very clever! The redhead waiter will think John is an inspector of some kind. The kind that inspects restaurants for… regulations. There is a term for that. I likely keep it in the attic though, with the rest of the drivel.

“I… of course sir, I’ll be right back.”

The redhead waiter slumps his shoulders and makes his way to the bar in a rush. It’s less than a minute before he’s back with a white plastic box, hands it over to John with an apology, and calls him ‘sir’ twice in a botched attempt at appeasing John. Because John is someone who needs to be appeased, now.

John. Brilliant.

“Where’s Molly?” I ask when I glimpse at the remains of her lipstick at the edge of a half-empty glass of some frivolous pink concoction. “She usually stays at least until the end of the game,” I incline my head towards the large screen where sweaty people are chasing a worthless ball of polyurethane and butyl leather. The hobbies of the dull.

“She was called in for a nightshift.” Mike is still smiling at me, and I’m just beginning to contemplate whether I’ve done something wrong already when I’m distracted by the feeling of my hair being parted above my vertex. I try to turn around to make sure it’s John standing behind me and not the redhead waiter, but calloused fingertips press at my temples and direct my gaze right back at Mike.

“Stay still, it’s hard to see the wound from your hair as it is.”

Right, I have thick hair. Curly too. I hope John doesn’t harbor any intentions of shaving it; it’s quite nice when intact.

“So,” Mike waves his arm to recapture my attention, and his smile widens when my eyes land on the general vicinity of his face. It’s becoming unnerving, all the smiling. “I hate to do this, but I promised Lidia I will be back before nine. The kids,” he makes a vague gesture that could be interpreted in so many ways it’s impossible to interpret. “You know how it is.” Do I? Who is Lidia? “John, will you be alright—”

“Sure, go ahead, I’ve got— damn it, there’s no paracetamol in here,” John mutters the last part while digging around the first aid kit, but Mike produces a blister pack from his coat pocket as he prepares to leave the pub. “Ah, great, thanks Mike!”

John pushes two white, round pills into my left hand and a glass of water into the right. His palm covers my fingers for a second, not letting go until he’s confident the glass is secure in my grip. I swallow the pills dry before I realize what I’m doing, but I decide to take a few sips of the water under the weight of John’s glare. He did go into some trouble for acquiring it for me, after all. Probably. I didn’t see where he got it from. He could be poisoning me right now.

And Mike just left me alone with him.

“Surgical needles are not part of the standard first aid kit,” I offer when the doctor takes the glass out of my hand, and it takes me a moment to realize I’m right. God. Of _course_ I’m right! What was I even thinking, asking some random stranger in a pub to stitch up a head wound? I might need to go to the A&E, after all. I hope the morbidly obese nurse is not on duty – she keeps trying to pet my hair every time I’m there, like I’m in _distress_. Ridiculous.

“No, they are not,” John’s tone is light, unconcerned as he continues to push plasters and packets of gauzes around in the box. “But in most pubs…” he trails off, then emerges with a semi-transparent blue tube, flashing a victorious grin. His teeth are very straight. “This _is_.”

For a moment I forget the whole point of this little exercise and nearly smile back, except—

“You’re not putting superglue in my hair.”

John glares again. His frown lines will become permanent rather quickly, at this rate. Not that they are unattractive.

“Yes, I am.”

Oh. Alright then.

I let John fuss around with his rubber gloves and cleansing wipes and antiseptic, opting to take in the rest of the table while he’s occupied.

Our immediate audience consists of two people: the cellist from before, and some tax accountant Mike procured from god only knows where. No, not Mike. Molly. Those two have a shared tendency for collecting strays.

“How’s your evening going?” I ask them with a deadpan expression, which earns a brief giggle from John before he smothers it with a pitifully transparent throat clearing. The corners of my mouth lift up.

Not getting the sarcasm, the cellist opens his mouth with the intention of _talking_ , and I hurry to cut him off when I notice the glimmer of _interest_ in his eyes.

“Not interested,” I state plainly, holding up a palm for good measure. Have my fingers always been this bony?

“Stop tilting your head,” John chides and corrects my posture again without giving me a chance to do so. He’s a very physical man, isn’t he, this John. “Also, that was rude,” he adds, but he sounds more amused than chiding now.

“I often am. Rude, that is.”

I have no idea why there are words still coming out of my mouth, but John doesn’t seem to mind, so it’s fine.

“Yeah,” I can hear the smile in his voice. “I gathered.”

The cellist and the accountant inch away from us and pretend to watch the game, content with the occasional wary glance in our direction. John puts the third wipe down on the table, which is still mostly immersed in red. Head wounds bleed a lot, but this seems excessive. Well, that’s John’s problem now.

“Is your brother out of rehab yet?”

What is _wrong_ with me?

John pauses in his work with the antiseptic cream, but it’s brief, and he still doesn’t sound offended when he next speaks.

“How did you know that?”

No, not offended. Curious.

“Your phone. It’s expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you couldn’t afford it, not on your army pension. It has scratches. Not one, but many over time. Been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man on the verge of being evicted from his bedsit—“ shouldn’t have said that, too late, “wouldn’t treat his one luxury item like this, so it’s had a previous owner. A gift, then. Next bit’s easy. You know it already.”

Silence falls over the table, and even I can tell it’s not the good kind. The cellist looks at me with the same wide, horrified eyes he regarded Jessica Hopkins’ post-mortem photo with all those weeks ago. His gaze flickers between me and John, who, to his credit, hasn’t paused in his ministrations again.

“The engraving,” he says mildly, and I can’t tell if it’s a warning, a challenge to do one worse so he would have ample reason for throwing the first punch, and his fingers are still probing around my very much _open_ wound, and yet…

“Harry Watson. Clearly a family member; not your father, this is a young man’s gadget. Could be a cousin, but you’re a war hero who can’t find a place to live.” Not good, that bit? John doesn’t flinch, so it must be fine.

“Unlikely you’ve got an extended family, certainly not one you’re close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who’s Clara? Three kisses say it’s a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model’s only six month old. Marriage in trouble then, six months on he’s just given it away. If she’d left _him_ , he’d have kept it. People do – sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. _He_ left _her_. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch. You’re looking for cheap accommodations but you’re not going to your brother for help, that says you’ve got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don’t like his drinking.”

After a minute of silence the cellist and the accountant share a look, stand up wordlessly and leave for the bar. The people in the pub cheer as one. One of the sweaty idiots must have succeeded in kicking the ball through the hundred ninety-two square feet surface between the goalposts. Honestly. You can build _houses_ on hundred ninety-two square feet, and we call _this_ an achievement?

“How can you _possibly_ know about the drinking?”

John is still not angry. Odd. Perhaps I’m speaking too fast for him to follow?

“Shot in the dark.” I shuffle in my seat uncomfortably, fighting the impulse to explain. Futile. That’s a battle I never win. “Good one, though. Power connection – tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man’s phone, never see a drunk’s without them.”

It doesn’t matter. People’s reaction doesn’t matter, and John is just people. _Everyone_ is just people.

“That…” John’s fingers abandon my head as he steps around my chair, and my head turns to the left on instinct. He’s left handed – it stands to reason he would throw a punch with his dominant hand. Easier to turn with a hit if it doesn’t come directly from—

“…was amazing.”

It… what?

“Do you think so?” I blurt the question before my eyes could reach John again, John, who is looking down at me with… not contempt, not surprise, not exactly; this is something bigger, better, something _good_ , and whatever it is I want more of it immediately.

“Of course it was! It was extraordinary.” He clears his throat, colour rising to his cheeks at his slight outburst. Self-conscious. No, don’t be. “It was quite… extraordinary.”

Extraordinary. My mind latches onto the word with a ferocity that makes my vision blur, although I do catch a glimpse of John holding the glue tube between his teeth as he takes his place behind me once more. He smells of gun oil. Exactly like last time.

“That’s not what people normally say.”

A huff of breath tickles my scalp; the fingers are back, fiddling with my hair. The superglue is slipped into a pocket of faded blue jeans.

“What do people normally say?”

“’Piss off.’”

I hear a disbelieving laugh I can’t help but join for a second.

Extraordinary indeed.

“Did I get anything wro— are you braiding my hair?!”

“Stop fidgeting, I’m nearly done.”

“Why on earth—”

“I can’t just pour superglue onto a gash,” John is laughing again. “It’s quite toxic, people shouldn’t be doing this all the damn time. No, I’m only putting it on your roots, the braids will keep the wound closed. This would need at least five stiches normally, you know. _Will_ need five stiches actually, since your hair grows a little bit every day, so—”

“Zero point forty-four millimeters per day,” I correct without thinking. “Stiches in the scalp should stay in place for at least ten days. Hair growth will render this method useless within three.”

“I— y-yes. Exactly. God, you’re unbelievable.” John sounds a tad breathless, and in a second… yes, there he goes with the laugh again. There’s a hint of self-deprecation in this one though, if I’m not mistaken. “So you will need to get stiches tomorrow, latest the day after—“

“Of course.” I will likely just put more glue onto the roots. Or forget about it. That usually works.

“Right.”

John continues to work in silence, and I count three braids before he appears between me and the table, mumbling something about the angle, then resumes with a fourth braid. My sight is suddenly filled with the grey-blue wool of a frankly dreadful jumper, which I hope John chose to wear for its thick material and subsequent usefulness in hiding the gun against his lower back rather than visual appeal, because as far as presentation goes…

“So, I hope you know I can’t let you go to the Yard in this state, let alone… where were you going to go to collect evidence again?”

Hah. John is acting like he doesn’t know me at all.

“I didn’t say,” I reply with a healthy dose of indignation, “and I _need_ to collect the murder weapon; it will be gone by morning.”

There’s a residual smell of fabric softener as John leans more fully over me, the kind that’s available in cheap launderettes scraping by under dubious management choices. John hums, and I see the minute vibrations travel through the soft, ugly wool covering his sternum. I get the inexplicable urge to bury my face in it.

Definitely concussed.

“Well, where is it then?”

“In a bin. Behind a hardware store. Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

The glue doesn’t touch my skin, but I still feel the heat of it as it dries. I wonder if John knows that the cyanoacrylate in superglue reacts to the humidity in the air rather than the gases, as most people would assume. Electronegativity breaks a double bond in the monomer structure, which leads to—

“Polymerization on exposure to hydroxyl, and did you know that you can use certain species of ants as sutures?”

“Hmm, yes. I do know about that one.” Of course he does. John is a doctor. “Didn’t follow a word of all that chemistry though, I’m afraid.” No matter. He knows about the ants.

“Have you ever used ants as sutures?”

“Can’t say I have,” his smile is evident in his voice again. “The worst I had to make do with was dental floss... Aaand we’re done.”

“Excellent,” I make to stand but John’s hands press on my shoulders, then there are fingers sneaking down my nape, under the collar of my coat and jacket, settling their warmth somewhere between my shoulder blades. I wonder if I should inquire about the goal of this exercise, but John removes his hand quickly, his palm saturated with partially coagulated blood. Estimating blood loss, then.

“Jesus,” John sounds mildly alarmed now. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

I might have a few bruised ribs and something small and sharp is stuck in my right calf, so I respond in the negative.

“Okay. Alright… Listen.”

“I already dislike the destination of this conversation,” I try to interrupt, but John only looks down at me with concerned eyes, not seeming to register my words. An auditory processing disorder, perhaps?

“I don’t feel comfortable leaving you alone with a concussion. Is there—”

“I don’t have a concussion.” I really do. So do.

“—someone you can—”

“Come with me, then.” _Very_ much do.

John must have a concussion too, because not five minutes later we are sitting in a cab, side by side, as he listens (actually _listens_ ) to my recounting of a murder carried out by a hardware store assistant, who fancied himself a serial killer after watching a few documentaries and googling “how to remove fingerprints from a corpse but forget about the sheet metal screw I drove through her eardrum”.

“And you got all that from the grass on her shoes?” John hasn’t stopped smiling since we left the pub, but it doesn’t feel patronizing, so I make no attempt at ruining it.

“That, and those documentaries about the Jigsaw Killer.”

“I… don’t think those were documentaries, mate.”

“Same difference.”

“Amazing.”

John insist on searching the trash for the screwdriver so I lend him my leather gloves (“You shouldn’t be leaning forward with a con— after a _head injury_ ”), and he keeps praising my deductive skills all the way until he’s found the weapon, and then some more.

“Where do you live, then?” he asks me once we’re seated next to each other in a different cab, and I think he’s being a bit too direct but his thigh is an agreeable source of warmth against mine, so I hear myself saying “221 Baker Street” before I realize “But I need to take this to Lestrade.”

“No you don’t. I’ll take it, I already texted Greg. You need rest.”

I don’t know who Greg is but John seems confident enough in his ability to deliver the object to the Yard, so I defer to his medical expertise. Rest sounds surprisingly non-horrible at the moment.

When we arrive John informs me that the trip seemed unreasonably short only because I fell asleep, which is such a ridiculous notion I don’t even dignify it with a response. He leaves his cane in the cab as he escorts me to the door, and at this point I start to wonder if his fingers will leave permanent indentations around my left shoulder. He seems to have developed an odd fixation with it as a main source of physical connection.

I wonder if said fixation could be transferred to other body parts.

“Right,” he shuffles his feet awkwardly after I ring the bell – forgot my keys again – and slowly, cautiously, withdraws his hand from my coat. “Do you, um… is there someone—”

“Yes,” I exclaim in a hurry, knowing exactly how the answer could be interpreted. _Will_ be interpreted.

“Right,” John says, tone unreadable, then takes a step back with a decisive nod. “Good. You should avoid—“

“Reading, television, crime scenes. I’m aware.” I’m also aware that the corners of my mouth are doing things without my permission, but fortunately John’s face reflects the sentiment.

“Good.” Cue throat clearing. “Don’t forget to get that sutured properly,” he gestures towards my head, “and get an X-ray while you’re at it.”

“Yes, Dr. Watson.”

And this is it, this is the moment he corrects me, asks me to call him _John_ , and then—

“Right then,” he takes another step back, body already angled towards the cab. “Take care, Sherlock.”

The cab doesn’t drive off until Mrs. Hudson has collected me from the porch, and by some miracle the next morning finds me in bed, alone, with a horrifying sensation I haven’t experienced in a while. Certainly not in this context.

It’s disappointment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not a native English speaker, so please feel free to point out any parts that sound weird to you or should be fixed for whatever reason. Hope you enjoyed this chapter nonetheless, and as usual, feedback is always welcome. :) Thank you!


	3. Chapter 3

**_John_ **

The pub comes alive with a roar the moment the ball passes the goal line, and Greg claps me on the back with a hearty shout, making me splash the table with beer as I stumble forward a bit from the force. He doesn’t apologize and we grin at each other madly, and for a moment things feel almost… good. Normal.

It’s not even Friday, but Greg had to skip the regular pub night yesterday due to another one of those suicides the papers have been raving about lately, and the semi-finals don’t wait for no one, so… here we are, just the two of us this time.

Prior to last Friday I did not even know we had each other’s phone numbers. Must have happened during that time with the one too many pints, when everyone around our table seemed to wear an air of friendliness that doesn’t come to Englishmen without a certain amount of alcohol involved. I can’t say I mind, really – Greg is a good lad, and he could do with a bit more of a social life too, from what Mike tells me.

It doesn’t hurt that his invitation lacks the subtle undertone of pity for the invalided soldier, which, despite his best efforts, cannot be said of Mike’s texts, as much as I try to ignore it every time he sends me one.

“So,” Greg starts once the excitement of the patrons has settled into a more contained buzz, not tearing his eyes away from the screen. “I hear you patched Sherlock up last week, after I left.”

There’s a moment where I freeze, heart skipping a beat, because surely Mike did not tell Greg about… did he?

I take a deliberate breath and let the panic wash over me, knowing it will ebb with a few heartbeats if I just rationalize the situation. Like Ella taught.

Why am I panicked? Because I don’t want Greg to know I had been interested in Sherlock. Especially not now, not after all of Mike’s careful planning has fallen over with a crash – even if the man himself has yet to admit to that particular failure. Greg has a very down-to-earth view of the world due to his work, and he spends a considerable amount of time with Sherlock, again, due to said work. Surely he would see the absurdity of Sherlock (mad, handsome, brilliant Sherlock) being _matchmade_ with the unemployed, aging soldier with a cane. So yeah, I don’t want him to know about that.

But would Mike really go around telling people? To Greg? Oh God, to _Molly_?

No. No, Mike is not a cruel person… except that he might not perceive it as cruelty, seeing how he doesn’t even seem to realize the ridiculousness of—

No, stop. It doesn’t matter. If Greg knows, then… well. He might have a laugh. Behind my back, most likely. Worse things have happened to you, Watson.

I manage a sound of what I hope is a vague agreement as I take a sip from my drink and hope that will be it, but alas, Greg has different plans.

“How’d that go for you?”

There’s a smile in his voice but it’s not the mocking kind – it’s more like the ‘you poor sod, I wouldn’t want to be in your place’ kind, which levels my initial alarm into something more manageable. He simply doesn’t know the full story of what happened last Friday, that’s all. He wasn’t there when I took the screwdriver over to the Yard, Sally didn’t feel inclined to ask any questions, and my text to Greg contained very little information besides the fact that I will be delivering the evidence instead of the usual consulting detective.

“Not as bad as you might imagine,” I force a laugh, “he was pretty out of it, actually. Kept talking in circles about… chemistry, mostly. Bees. He knows a lot about football, none of which is useful to the actual game, but still.”

I realize that my voice gets softer and softer as I keep talking, so I clear my throat and wash the words down with a rather large gulp of beer. After a moment of silence I chance a glance at Greg, who looks at me with a raised eyebrow.

“Football,” he says in a rather skeptical tone, and I nod. “Sherlock _hates_ football. I thought he deleted the whole thing long ago.” He sounds confused, but after a second he looks back at me, gathering words for an explanation I don’t really need. “It's, um, that’s something he does, like deleting—“

“Method of loci, yeah,” I wave his description away, which might not have been the best idea, if Greg’s surprised expression is anything to go by. “I looked it up,” I rush to add, “to see if it was real or if he was just… pulling my leg. Got that feeling a lot that night, actually.”

Greg laughs, putting my nerves at ease at last.

“Yeah, he’s brilliant, the git,” he says, sounding more fond than scolding. “A great man… someday maybe even a good one, if we’re lucky.”

I want to ask what he means by that, but Greg’s smile gathers a hint of alertness, eyes narrowing with… suspicion?

“So he told you about his Mind Palace thing?”

God, I forgot I’m trying to fool a D.I. here. Deep breath, no stuttering.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I went with him to the hardware store after I patched him up. He had a concussion, I couldn’t let him run around the city all alone, at night.” Too defensive, tone it down. “So yeah, he told me a bit about his work and how he does it. _Deduced_ me within an inch of my life, too,” I finish with a laugh again, but for some reason, the suspicious glint in Greg’s gaze only sharpens at that.

“He did, huh?” he asks and— oh, that’s not suspicion at all, is it? It’s something more fierce, more like…

Protectiveness! Yes, that’s it. Greg is Sherlock’s friend, and Mike – and even Sherlock himself – told me how people usually react to the consulting detective’s deductions.

“Yes,” I continue with more confidence now that I know what is expected of me. “It was amazing.”

That seems to render Greg speechless for a good minute.

“Amazing?”

“Well, it is, isn’t it? What he does. Bloody humiliating, but amazing nonetheless.”

He sends me a calculating look, and for a moment I wonder if gave too much away, but his expression shifts into approval, making me feel like I passed some kind of test I wasn’t aware I was taking.

“Yeah, it really is,” he’s grinning again, slumping back into his chair with a sigh. “So tell me, did he say anything worthy of blackmail while he was concussed? I have been trying to get him drunk for _years_ …”

The next forty minutes are spent with companionable chatter, sprinkled with the occasional opponent bashing when it becomes apparent our team is going to lose. The conversation remains more or less centered around Sherlock, though. Greg tells me about the time they got several calls from concerned citizens about a man, who got on the tube coated in blood and wielding a harpoon (turned out to be Sherlock, of course), and I tell him about how Sherlock called his own hair thick, curly, and ‘quite nice’ while I was preparing to put superglue into his apparently luxurious locks.

By the time the game is over I find myself relaxing into the banter so much that I make the mistake of mentioning how Sherlock fell asleep mid-sentence in the cab, right on my shoulder.

“Did he, really?” Greg’s stare gains a new kind of suspicion, the kind that I’ve been trying to avoid all along, and I can’t help but straighten my spine a bit under his evaluating gaze. “You know, Sherlock is not… he doesn’t usually take to—“

Thankfully the discussion is cut short when the D.I.’s mobile beeps, and he hisses a curse under his breath when he opens the text.

“Shit, John, I need to go mate. I’m so sorry, I know I invited you—”

“No, it’s fine, go ahead,” I offer easily, knowing very well how important Greg’s job is. I wish I could stop being jealous over such a job every time he’s called in for a new case. “Is it a suicide again?” I do my best to keep the overt curiosity out of my voice, but Greg is too occupied with typing out a reply to notice anyway.

“Yeah,” he says, then adds absentmindedly: “I’m gonna have to call Sherlock in on this one.”

I refrain from commenting on that as he collects his coat with another apology sent my way, and agree to a ‘proper’ outing another time, even though we did get to watch the entirety of the game before he was called away.

Well. This didn’t go nearly as bad as I expected. I left the flat two days in a row. Socialized, even, on both accounts. Talked about football and a… semi-mutual acquaintance, drank a very moderate amount of alcohol, and I even managed to leave my gun behind at the bedsit today. I believe Ella would call this a moderate success, if she knew about my gun at all.

Perhaps civilian life is not going to be as horrible as I imagined. As I still imagine it to be, if I’m honest.

“John!”

Greg storms back into the pub less than two minutes after his departure, coat hanging off half his frame with only one arm in the sleeves.

“John, listen!” the words rush out of him as soon he reaches my table, and I notice he’s more than a little out of breath. My heart rate picks up at the potential implications of a Detective Inspector acting like he’s being chased, and I find myself scanning the crowd for the reason of his behavior. He notices it, of course he does, and he hurries to clarify.

“No, no, that’s not—“ he gestures behind himself, indicating he has no pursuer that needs to be taken care of. I refuse to feel disappointed. “I need you to come with me, John.”

I must look as confused as I suddenly feel, because Greg laughs at my expression.

“Not— you’re not in trouble! God, I’m bollixing this up!” he laughs again, then makes an effort to collect himself. “Look, Anderson is on forensics today, he won’t work with Sherlock, and you’re an army doctor, and Sherlock is always going on about needing an assistant, I know this is a lot to ask, but if you could… just this once John, I swear—“

“Let’s go.”

The full implications of what I agreed to hit me just as we reach Brixton, because god, civilian life will be so much more unsatisfying, downright _distasteful_ after whatever it is that I’m about to walk into, but Greg is telling me about rules and protocols and “don’t you breathe a word about this to anyone, John”, and I can’t bring myself to regret my decision as I’m ducking under police tape, not even when I have to walk up the stairs to the second floor, limping.

This once, Greg said. I get to have this just this once.

We’re both wearing overalls and latex gloves, white cotton covering our shoes, and we’re standing in front of the door of the supposed crime scene with who I suppose is Anderson when Sherlock arrives.

He does a double take when he sees me, _recognizes_ me, and my heart is beating in my throat even though I have absolutely no idea what I’m supposed to do here, but Sherlock is here, wearing that expensive coat, and suddenly I feel alive again, and it’s just like in Afghanistan—

“What is he doing here?”

Ah. So much for a warm welcome. Not that I should have expected one, really, but still. I thought we parted on somewhat... amicable terms, last time.

Then again, the man _was_ concussed, despite his best efforts at denying it.

“He’s your assistant today. I’m not listening to you and Anderson go at it again if I don’t have to,” is Greg’s simple explanation, but I hardly think Sherlock will be more impressed with it than he is with my presence in general, and maybe I shouldn’t have come here without—

“You’re an army doctor,” Sherlock addresses me abruptly, sizing me up in my overalls, and I barely manage a stuttered agreement in the midst of the abject humiliation I suddenly feel over my very existence as my damned leg forces me to transfer more of my weight onto my cane.

“Any good?” he asks with a raised eyebrow, and that, _that_ implication right there is not something I’m willing to take, not even from Sherlock Holmes, because I may be invalided, I may be limping and scarred and too broken to remain a surgeon, but being a doctor is the one area where I am – and where I always will be:

“ _Very_ good.”

Sherlock’s pupils dilate visibly, and the smirk that overtakes his features is almost _feral_.

Christ.

“Excellent!” he exclaims before opening the door and ushering me inside with a hand splayed at the small of my back, the imprints left by his fingertips burning long after he removes them.

The next few hours pass in a blur: Sherlock is a kid on a sugar high _and_ on a Christmas morning, firing off deductions at a speed I can barely keep up with, his intellect fizzling and sparkling like fireworks in the making as he manages to leave everyone in the room in a daze and wondering what just happened when he finally comes up to the surface of our reality for a breath.

It might be the single most spectacular feat I have ever witnessed in my life.

The victim is a young woman, Jennifer Wilson, and the sight of her lifeless body is staggering for a few short seconds, but Sherlock seizes my focus with his brilliance and his barbs at Anderson, and I’m _breathless_.

He says all the wrong things without pausing to give them thought: says he _loves_ serial killers, that this whole thing, standing over the corpse of a person is _fun_ , and he even succeeds at offending _Greg_ at one point… and exactly _zero_ of those things dampen the feeling of amazement I feel when he gathers that the victim just arrived from Cardiff, based on nothing but a _weather report_.

“That’s fantastic,” I say in complete wonder, and Sherlock steps closer, lowering his head to my level and asks in a half-whisper:

“Do you know you do that out loud?”

I feel my cheeks flush into a no doubt unflattering shade of red, because no, in fact I have not realized that I do.

“Sorry. I’ll shut up.”

“No, it’s…“ Sherlock pauses, looking directly into my eyes, “fine.”

Fine. Yes. Very fine.

Sherlock proceeds to analyze the splash marks on the woman’s leg, insists on looking at a suitcase, and when Greg admits they haven’t found one yet he is off, sprinting down the staircase with childish delight, and I just start wondering how on earth I’m going to get back to the bedsit when he stops, looks up from a storey bellow and goes:

“Come along, John!”

So I do.

I do, because I realize that no matter what Sherlock Holmes is about to do, I do not want to miss a single second of it.

That’s how we end up digging up trash in some random skip not an hour later, except it proves to be less than random when Sherlock unearths a bright pink suitcase, and we head back to his flat smelling faintly like homeless people and covered in rubbish, and it’s _glorious_.

The thrill of the case consumes me with a ferocity I couldn’t have imagined in my wildest dreams, overwhelming to the point where my only reaction to Sherlock making me text a serial killer is an honest to god giggle.

We end up at a restaurant named Angelo’s, where the owner is grateful to Sherlock for sending him to jail, and where Sherlock says “I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work” during a slightly awkward conversation where I fail to tone my interest down to an acceptable level, and even that is fine, it’s _all_ fine because the next minute we’re chasing a cab down the street and we’re jumping on rooftops, and we're pretending to be policemen and then running away from the _actual_ police, and this is it, this is so much better than Afghanistan, this is _everything,_ and—

“That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done,” I say as we slam the door to 221 Baker Street shut behind us, sweaty and panting as we lean back against the wall of the hallway, coats discarded onto the banister. Our shoulders are pressed together, the contact burning hot and transmitting every tiny movement, every shudder the other makes as we are trying to catch our breath.

“And you’ve invaded Afghanistan.”

I can’t help the giggle that escapes me, and I don’t even care that giggling is all I’ve seemed to be doing for the past few hours.

“That wasn’t just me.”

My reply makes Sherlock chuckle, and it’s the most beautiful sound I have ever heard, and my blood is singing in my veins and adrenaline is still thrumming through my body and dear god I never want this to end, _please don’t let this end_.

My silent plea is forgotten when I feel a shift in the air around my face, and I open my eyes to come face to face with one Sherlock Holmes.

The man looks ragged in the best kind of way: tousled hair and flushed cheeks, green eyes shining with a predatory gleam as he takes a step closer, palms coming up and pressing against the wall above my shoulders. I lift my chin in defiance, making no attempt at escaping the arms that are bracketing me.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice is throaty – he’s close enough now that I feel his breath on my cheeks, can practically feel the heat of his body through our clothes, and it’s still not _close_ _enough_. “John,” he repeats.

“Yes,” I exhale and I’m painfully aware that it’s meant to be a question but it’s _not_ , but Sherlock seems to understand because he doesn’t stop coming closer. My hands are flattened to the wall by my thighs, not daring to move an inch lest they startle Sherlock into retreat, but his gaze focuses on my mouth as he lick his lips, that beautiful arch of his Cupid’s bow glistening in the low light, and he’s ducking his head now, nearly there, closing the gap as he says:

“John, you’re—“

The shriek of the doorbell pulls me back into reality with a force that makes me jump, but I don’t bother with embarrassment because I see Sherlock flinch at the sound too.

He pulls back with a startled look, peering down at me with wide eyes, his surprise almost comical in face of the previous few seconds. I still feel heady with excitement enough to produce a laugh, not terribly bothered by the interruption despite how much I wanted – how much I still want – Sherlock to proceed with...

Anything. Proceed with anything at all.

“It’s for you,” Sherlock says all of a sudden, his face adapting the carefully arranged, blank mask that I’ve seen him wear after Sally had called him a freak the first time we’ve met, and that’s when alarm bells start to go off in my head, signaling something isn’t quite right.

“Sherlock, what—“ I start but the doorbell rings again, and Sherlock waves me away, putting several steps of distance between us.

The distance is not just physical.

I take a shuddering breath and open the door in a now uncomfortable daze, surprised to find Angelo standing there.

“Sherlock texted me,” he says, holding my cane out for me to take, smiling. “He said you forgot this.”

I did. Bloody hell, I _did_.

I turn back to Sherlock but he’s no longer facing me, and my momentary shock is quickly replaced by worry when I see him tearing at his hair in agitation, muttering things like “goldfish” and “passing the time” and “the _work_ ”.

I take the cane quickly and thank Angelo, intent on getting to the bottom of the reason for Sherlock’s sudden distress, but he speaks up before I could voice any of my concerns.

“You should go home, John.”

I open my mouth twice only to close it, before my vocal chords deign to work with me. My mind won’t supply the words, not the right ones at least, and what comes out sounds desperate to my own ears even as I say it, grasping at straws that aren’t there – that likely have never been there in the first place.

“But— now? What about the case? We still haven’t—“

“No more leads to follow for now,” Sherlock cuts me off with brutal efficiency, his posture stiff as he carefully directs his gaze anywhere but near me. “I will get back to it once something comes up again. Go home, John.”

The lie sounds hollow, transparent, but I don’t have it in me to object because Sherlock doesn’t _need_ me to be here, he never needed me here, because what have I really done while he was busy connecting dots and working out the where and the what and the how all afternoon?

Nothing.

I confirmed the cause of death of Jennifer Wilson, something I’m sure Sherlock could have done perfectly well all by himself, I submerged myself in trash where Sherlock ended up finding the evidence, and I followed him running around London as we chased down a cab that did not add anything to the development of the case after all.

Oh, and I sent a text. I sent a text, pretending that I’m _needed_ here, at 221B Baker Street, to do just that, since texting is obviously beyond Sherlock’s capabilities.

The weight of that realization is both like a cold shower and hot coil that settles heavily in the pit of my stomach, and I have to swallow to fight down the nausea.

“Right,” I manage after a minute of horrid, pitiful silence, averting my eyes so I wouldn’t have to watch Sherlock _not_ watching me. Not anymore. “Yeah. I… I understand.” I do. I don’t want to, but by god, I do.

“Goodbye, Sherlock.”

“Yes.”

Ella keeps saying London is a city full of possibilities. What a joke. Baker Street is cold and alien when I step out onto the pavement, not at all like it has been mere minutes ago. The colors are dull and washed out, almost grey in their lack of intensity.

Boring.

Go home, he says. If only I knew where that is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Sherlock_ **

Lestrade is a moron.

He’s asking all the wrong questions, gets hung up on all the irrelevant things that did _nothing_ to help me solve the case – nothing to suggest that it was the cabbie, the _cabbie_ of all people who’s been hunting the crowd – and he also does nothing to stop Anderson from snapping pictures as I’m sitting in the back of an ambulance with this stupid orange blanket around my shoulders that the paramedics just won’t let me get rid of.

A _moron_.

This fact is further supported by his befuddlement when I inquire about possible sightings of the shooter, of whom we know absolutely nothing about if the D.I. is to be believed, and I can’t help but wonder how the man manages to survive in his continuous state of perplexity. It’s quite the feat, really.

I establish a profile as I make another attempt at pushing the orange blanket away, but it gets immediately replaced by the handsy nurse who probably thinks I’m about to spontaneously asphyxiate, seeing how she has checked my lungs three times already – twice out of which she did so without the usage of a stethoscope.

“—strong moral principle. You’re looking for a man, probably with a history of military service…”

I trail off immediately when I see him.

John. John is here.

What on earth is John doing here? He didn’t come with Lestrade. Coincidence? I nearly scoff at the unintentional thought, feeble as it is. The universe is rarely so lazy. Why then? How? _Why_?

“…and nerves of steel,” I force the words through my lips, trying to focus, but it’s impossible with John here, eyes darting around the scene behind the police tape, catching my gaze just for a second before looking away innocently, like he has no idea what—

Oh. _Oh_!

But how—

No, wait. Rewind.

Yesterday evening.

John goes straight home from Baker Street: no undue money left from this month’s budget for a stop at a pub (was he tempted? inconclusive, but likely), too reasonable to spend on alcohol when procuring food becomes of essence. Happenings of the rest of the evening unclear, not enough data. No reason to suspect anything of importance though – it’s not Friday, and John has little to no social life outside of Fridays.

Today then.

But why? John has no reason to seek out my person (not anymore), let alone _know_ where to find me when not even the Yard does. How then—

Lestrade. Lestrade comes to Baker Street around noon, doesn’t find me there. Mrs. Hudson informs me as soon as I climb down from the roof, hours later, having figured out that ‘Rachel’ serves as a password for the victim’s find-my-phone account. Sentiment, probably.

Lestrade calls John. Of course he does: he has ample reason to think John would know of my whereabouts, seeing how we left the crime scene together yesterday. But John doesn’t know.

Lestrade isn’t worried – knows me too well to be concerned about a slight disappearance in the middle of a case, but John…

John does worry.

I snap out of the mental picture of John standing in the middle of a scarcely lived in bedsit, scowling down at his phone, and I hurry to fish mine out of my pocket, remembering the ringing that accompanied my ride here with Hope, forcing me to put it on silent.

Seven missed calls. Five new messages.

Three of the calls are from Lestrade, early afternoon – the rest are from John. Why do I have his—

Ah, yes. We exchanged numbers last week: he told me to give him a call if any complications arose from the concussion that I didn’t have. There were no complications, naturally, seeing as there was no concussion.

The first text is also from Lestrade; I skip that one in order to open the ones from John.

From: John Watson, 14:58  
 _Hey Sherlock, sorry to bother you, just  
checking in. Greg says he cant reach  
you, everything alright? John W._

Well, apart from the lack of proper grammar…

From: John Watson, 17:27  
 _Hey, it’s me again. Look, I know you’d  
probably prefer if I stopped bugging you,  
but if you dont answer my texts I’m gonna  
have to think the suicide killer got to you. __:)  
Just let me know if you’re okay, I promise I’ll  
stop bothering you then. Thanks. John_

There is that word again: bothering. He’s not _bothering_ me. He never _bothered_ me.

From: John Watson, 18:44  
 _Sherlock, pick up your phone. Im getting  
worried.Please._

From: John Watson, 19:16  
 _im going over to 221b. pic up your  
phone!_

Oh John.

He must have arrived just minutes after I left with Hope, Mrs. Hudson let him up ("Oh, he's such a handsome young man Sherlock, and a _doctor!"),_ saw the laptop on my desk, the red dot moving on the map as our cab drove away from Baker Street in the heavy evening traffic. Grabbed the laptop, caught himself a cab, followed the dot all the way here, saw me through the window preparing to take the pill, Hope holding a gun, and then…

Military background. Crack shot, fighter, strong moral principle. Nerves of steel.

_‘Carries unregistered firearm,’_ my mind supplies the brief memory of our first meeting.

John is the shooter.

How… unexpected.

John just killed a man to save my life. To save _me_. Nobody has ever shot someone to save me from bodily harm. John is the shooter.

This is… delightful.

I want him to do it again.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade nudges my elbow, following my gaze to John, and no, no, that is not acceptable, John cannot be held responsible for this, for _any_ of this, not if I want him to do this again, not if I want—

“Actually, do you know what? Ignore me,” I say as an admittedly weak attempt at distraction, but it’s _Lestrade_ , and even if he’s not as much of an imbecile as the rest of Scotland Yard is, he’s still with the _police_ , so it works. I have to throw in a few more lines about catching him a serial killer and being in shock, but it works, and soon I’m standing right in front of John, giddy with adrenaline and vibrating with energy because John just killed a man for me and I _want him to do it again._

“Good shot,” I offer before John could utter a greeting, and I decide to clench any protests he’s about to voice in the bud with my next sentence. “Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case.”

John sends a nervous glance to the Yarders busying themselves with the crime scene, gulps audibly, then directs those dark blue eyes back to me, like he’s afraid _I’m_ going to blow the whistle on him, _me_ of all people! Hah.

“Are you alright?” I ask because the anxiety doesn’t suit him and I want to erase it, I want to replace it with something, something better, something wondrous and astounding and just as delightful as the fact that ‘ _John is not a detriment to the Work’_ is _._

Because John is not a detriment to the work – quite to the contrary, apparently. John, who followed me blindly for the better part of yesterday without a single complaint, who jumped into a rubbish bin and called me amazing and forgot about his limp in the face of danger, who kept worrying about my wellbeing even though he had absolutely no reason to even _think_ of me – let alone to do so favorably – after I told him to leave in a moment of panic less than twenty-four hours ago, _that_ John, has just killed a man for me. For the case. For me.

John is not a distraction, he’s an _asset_. An asset, who just committed murder. And I’ve sent him away. How incredibly stupid of me.

“Yes, of course I’m alright,” he says a bit testily, but his hands are not shaking so I don’t think a total mental breakdown is imminent anytime soon, which is a relief. One less thing to fix before I take him to dinner.

“Well, you _have_ just killed a man,” I reply with a calculatedly careful tone, looking for signs of shock in his body language. His shoulders are a bit hunched as he keeps his hands clasped in front of his torso, but that might be due to the weight of my laptop that is concealed behind his jacket (black, leather, highly unflattering), and he stammers out a reflexive agreement before the information sinks in. He breaks eye contact after a long exhale which very nearly _hurts_ , and for a second I’m worried I misjudged John’s mental stability, and dealing with a meltdown every time he shoots someone will be rather bothersome but it’s John, and John is a soldier so of course he doesn’t disappoint.

“That’s true, isn’t it?” Another deep sigh before eye contact is established again. That’s better. “But he wasn’t a very nice man.”

I can’t suppress the smile at that statement, because if John is able to make light of shooting not-nice men then he might be persuaded to shoot more not-nice men in the future, which would be… convenient? No, that’s not the word. Ideal, perhaps. Delightful. Brilliant. Luminous.

“And frankly, a bloody awful cabbie,” he adds after a short pause, and the laugh that’s been building since the moment I spotted John just won’t stay suppressed anymore, but I don’t care because John is laughing too so it must be okay.

“That’s true. He was a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here.”

The sounds coming from John’s throat are wonderful – I will need to keep him laughing as long as possible.

“Stop!” he admonishes me but it’s half-hearted at best, so I ignore him. The fact that he doesn’t take his own advice seriously rather ruins the effect, too. “Stop, we can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene. Stop it!”

“You’re the one who shot him,” I counter, still laughing, “don’t blame me.”

“Keep your voice down!”

John glances over my shoulder and I turn back to see Donovan eyeing us suspiciously as she passes by, but she would need at least two more brains and a detailed map to figure out what happened here today so I graciously let John apologize and mutter something about nerves in her direction, which is a blatant lie but Donovan, of course, doesn’t stop to question it.

“So,” John says after he clears his throat, “this is how you get your kicks, isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re an idiot.”

Oh, John is a _marvel_. Mike deserves a reward. A cake perhaps – he does seem to like eating. Mycroft can surely give some advice on the matter.

“Dinner?”

John blinks in surprise at the inquiry, and the contemplative look on his face that follows ruins my good mood in an instant. No. He’s going to say no. But that can’t— why would he do that? He clearly enjoys the thrill that the cases could potentially bring, and he managed quite a few hours in my company without resorting to insults, so he should be—

“Yeah, no, that would— uh, I don’t… that is, I should go home, I think.”

The silence that follows is eerily reminiscent to the one that settled over us in the hallway of 221 Baker Street, when I…

When I decided John needed to go, and sent him off with the same exact words. Stupid.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

“Ah, your laptop,” he fishes the mentioned item out from under his jacket, handing it over with just the barest trace of a tremor present in his dominant hand – just like in the pub on that first night, before he said _‘livor mortis’_ and transformed into the army doctor who—

Who is preparing to leave. For good.

“So,” he clears his throat again, refusing to meet my eyes as I take the damned laptop from his hands. Maybe an apology—

No. He wants to leave. Not an unexpected outcome, all things considered. An apology might work in the short term – it usually does – but it wouldn’t fix the issue, not entirely. Nothing ever does. How many apologies until he stops responding to my texts?

Three, if previous averages are to be believed. Perhaps five, in John’s case. He does seem to possess more determination than most.

“Um…” he looks around the scene once more, uncertain, then gives a decisive nod before braving one more glance at me. The last one he intends to send my way, I can tell. “Bye, Sherlock.”

I don’t answer because what would be the point, but when John stops after a few steps and looks over his shoulder to add: “I’m glad you’re okay,” I can’t help but give a hum of acknowledgement.

Or desperation. Either is equally likely, at the moment.

I spot a not even remotely discreet black car parking along the curb as I’m on my way to the main street, but Mycroft doesn’t seem to be in a social mood because he doesn’t stop me as I walk by. Very good – I’m in no mood for whatever he decided he doesn’t want from me after all, either.

The cold is biting into my hands viciously, making the tips of my fingers go numb by the time I flag down a taxi, and it occurs to me that it’s already winter. There are no obtrusive Christmas lights on the streets however, which suggests it’s either the beginning of November or sometime after mid-January. The temperature suggests the latter. So does the memory of Mrs. Hudson bringing up a cake to my kitchen a few weeks ago, with a single candle lit on top.

I’ll have to ask her later how old I am this year.

…

“Oh, Sherlock! Hello there!”

Mike Stamford’s greetings have gotten gradually more enthusiastic during the time I’ve known him, (which is an oddity in itself, as I typically induce a gradual decline of enthusiasm in people – usually a rather rapid one), but he’s been outdoing himself ever since he decided I needed to be _introduced_ to someone.

It’s becoming rather tiresome, especially now, because—

“How’s John?”

Yes. That.

“I wouldn’t know,” I reply while adjusting the condenser diaphragm on Molly’s microscope, idly contemplating the idea of stealing one from the half dozen that came in last week to her lab. These are far superior to the one I stole from here last year.

I refuse to look up but that doesn’t change the fact that Mike’s frown is practically _audible_ , and bloody hell, haven’t these people been taught how to control their thoughts when they were in kindergarten? Everyone is thinking so _loud_ , for god’s sake!

“What do you mean you wouldn’t know? He didn’t come to the pub these last two weeks, I thought he was… you know, with you?”

I grit my teeth as I overbalance and diffraction artifacts start to appear in the image, light halos obscuring the sickle cells Molly was kind enough to provide for a quick study, as long as none of them leaves the building with me. The fulfillment of that request is still up to debate.

“Well, he wasn’t.”

Mike is silent for a few minutes, but he’s quite good at strategic silences, so I don’t let it lull me into a false sense of security.

“Why on earth not?”

Mike is a rather direct person, which has been a trait I’ve appreciated in him right up to this moment, but the sheer offense in his voice catches me off guard enough to let that particular argument go for now.

Why is he so offended that John and I are not spending our Friday evenings together? Did he think that a simple introduction would throw us into—

Oh. He did, didn’t he? He did think that, because that’s what Mike _does_. He… throws people together, in one capacity or another, and in most of the cases that seems to work out just fine, if Molly can be trusted to retain a reasonable amount of accuracy in her rather over romanticized depictions.

Well. Mike might be good, but he’s certainly not omnipotent. If there was a person in this world who is compatible with my… _everything_ , I would have found them long ago – back at uni, most likely. The reason I haven’t is because no matter how hard I tried, no matter how many sharp edges I smoothed away with a steel rasp, everyone always kept cutting themselves on splinters, chips and fragments of my personality that continued to eat at their skin until slowly, painfully, ultimately they all bled out. Like Tony did. And Michael. And Chris.

And John.

So if Mike wants to know why _on earth_ isn’t John spending his Friday evenings in my company?

“You better pose that question to him.”

“…Oh.”

Molly brings in coffee and chats with Mike for a few minutes before taking her leave again, and the lab falls quiet for so long I’m beginning to think I’ve been left alone when Mike’s voice disturbs the peace.

“Sherlock, look, John is—“

“Mike,” I interrupt before he could go into any sort of detail about his assessment of John’s perceived behavior, because that would be a futile conversation and futile conversations are not to be had. “While I appreciate your… effort,” mostly, “I’d prefer it if you didn’t make plans to… _introduce_ me to people again.”

I’m not sure if the disdain in my voice is sufficient enough to forestall any objections Mike might pose to my request, but when I look up from the microscope he’s standing right next to me, and his contemplative expression morphs into something more frustrated, angry even, before smoothing back into a forced smile that doesn’t sit well with me at all. Is that it? Have I finally managed to offend Mike Stamford into running? Are the forced smiles all he’s ever going to greet me with from now on?

“No,” he clasps my shoulder and gives it a squeeze, his smile gaining a more natural tint when he reads my confusion. “I don’t think I will.”

He thumps me in the back and walks out of the lab surrounded by an air of determination, the kind that I haven’t seen since one Dr. John Watson insisted on putting superglue into my hair.

I suppose I should get _that_ out of my hair one of these days, shouldn’t I.

I try my best to hide my fingers in my coat pockets on my way home, but the winter air grabs at them with startling ferocity, and for the umpteenth time I wish I had the mental clarity necessary to ask for my gloves back when I last saw John at Roland-Kerr College. They are from Macau, produced by a small, family owned tannery that never takes more than a hundred orders of a model each year, every single one bespoke to their new owner. I had to stay over there for three weeks to get them.

They will never fit John like they fit me.

“Mrs. Hudson!” I bellow when I shut the front door after arriving home, hoping this weekend is not the weekend when she’s visiting her sister. “Tea!”

I turn on all the lights in the kitchen as I place the stolen blood sample on the countertop, and I’m just about to gauge the differences between the two microscopes to see whether the idea of stealing a new one has ample merit, when I notice the small blister on my pinky finger. My _left_ pinky finger. The rest of my fingertips feel rougher than usual as well, but I haven’t played the violin in weeks, so that shouldn’t—

Frostbite. It’s not the strings, it’s bloody _frostbite_! The metal pole from yesterday, no doubt. Superficial, no permanent damage, but still – how on earth did I not _notice_?

“Oh Sherlock, you’ve been out late again,” Mrs. Hudson puts a small box on the table as soon as she arrives, starting on the kettle without her usual complaints. Something’s wrong. “Your brother’s been in earlier.”

Ah. Of course.

“Joy.”

“Oh don’t be like that, he left something for you,” she motions to the black box and I decide to tear at the decorative bow before my anger could focus itself on Mrs. H again. She does so hate it when I shout at her.

Shouting at someone becomes rather imminent though very quickly, because within the box lay two items: a note that says “A gift from the Jiang family – they still had your measurements. – M”, and a pair of nearly identical leather gloves to the ones I left in the tender care of John Watson.

_Nearly_ identical only – the material is new and shiny and doesn’t have the slight cracks and creases my old pair gained during the last few years; these are not comfortable or well-worn or _loved,_ and the fact that Mycroft could procure them an entire week quicker than I did grates on my nerves in a way that startles Mrs. Hudson into a yelp. Well, perhaps the way I start slamming cabinets and drawers in my search for the lighter fluid also contributes somewhat to her reaction. Possibly.

“Sherlock, what are y— oh Christ, are you out of your mind? Stop that right now! Put it out Sherlock, put it out!”

I don’t bother waiting to see if she manages to stifle the very small, very contained fire in the sink that is currently being fueled by Mycroft’s ever so gracious _gift_ , and the fact that I don’t know – _l_ _iterally_ don’t know – where I’m headed to only dawns at me when the cabbie asks for the address of my destination. The only thing I _do_ know is that I _need_ _my_ _gloves_.

_Now_.

To: Mike Stamford, 20:18  
 _I need John’s address. –SH_

Mike doesn’t seem to be concerned with privacy issues as the requested address lands in my Inbox less than a minute later, no questions, suggestive remarks, or warnings attached. Mike just might be a friend indeed.

Twenty minutes later John opens the door to an incredibly dull, sparsely decorated bedsit with gray walls and barely any signs of a tenant, save for the army doctor blinking up at me in shock, caught in the process of tying his—

Tie.

John is wearing a silk, dark blue tie over a neatly pressed light blue dress shirt, both deliberately chosen to compliment the color of his eyes. Deliberately chosen to _appeal_.

John is going on a date.

The papers on the desk have the NHS logo printed on the top corner – new job, most likely as a general physician, seeing how an intermittent tremor would prevent any doctor from performing surgery in good conscience. Sore throats and congested sinuses and the occasional case of a mysterious rash – John finds it exceptionally boring, hence the paperwork accumulating on his desk. He is so behind he decided to bring it home to catch up during the weekend. His cane is hanging from the back of his chair along with his coat, a grey woolen thing with—

With the tips of my gloves peeking out from its pocket.

Oh.

“Sherlock? What are you doing here?”

John will go on an ordinary date with a no doubt ordinary person, have ordinary sex and return to his ordinary job tomorrow morning, treating ordinary colds and filling in ordinary paperwork for days, weeks, months, _years_ , and he will keep doing it right until the suicidal tendency that every freshly returned soldier is shipped with rears its ugly head again, until he starts polishing his gun daily again, until the nightmares—

John is withering here.

Unacceptable.

A single, pale peach colored rose is laying on the desk, no vase – woman around John’s age, possible coworker, second date. No great attachment, at least not yet.

Well, let’s see to it that it remains that way.

“Sherlock?” John asks again uncertainly as I step into his flat, but allows me the space to shut the door behind my back nonetheless. Good. It wouldn’t do for the neighbors to hear what I’m about to say.

What _am_ I about to say exactly? This needs a delicate approach – something direct enough that it couldn’t be misinterpreted, but subtle enough that it doesn’t scare—

_Scare_. No. John is a _soldier_ , he can do without the _delicate_.

“Cancel your date, John,” I say with as much confidence as I dare to put into my hastily formed plan, and step into John’s space. He’s not backing away which is an excellent development, because it will make the logistics of this next bit all the more uncomplicated.

On an impulse I grab his biceps and lean in to whisper directly against his mouth, watching his pupils dilate at the proximity, and I desperately hope he will _let me_ capture his lower lip between my teeth before the meaning of the words register in his brain.

“I’m here to suck you off.”

John _lets me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the many wonderful responses to the last chapter, I am so happy so many of you are enjoying this story! I will respond to all of them after a bit of sleep, seeing as it's 5 a.m. here. :) Until then enjoy this chapter, hope you like it!


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